A King's Ransom (87 page)

John was shifting restlessly in his seat, wondering if Durand had come back yet with his harlot, when Richard finally turned to him. “I have good news for you, Johnny. I am going to restore your forfeit estates.”

John sat up straight, staring at his brother in astonished delight. “Richard, thank you!”

“Your lands, not your castles. They will remain in my hands.”

That was a great letdown, for castles were power, but John knew better than to let his disappointment show, and thanked Richard effusively again. André and Will were trying to hide their disapproval, having already argued that John’s capture of Évreux had been dishonorable and his flight from the Vaudreuil Castle siege had been craven. They did not understand why Richard was so indulgent with John, although they suspected the queen mother had played a role in this. Exchanging glances, they silently agreed that no outsiders could ever fully comprehend the family dynamics of the Angevins, at once personal and political, vengeful and forgiving, and always dynastic.

A
RNE SAT UP ON HIS PALLET,
listening intently. When it came again, a muffled, indistinct sound, but one he’d heard before, he flung the covers back, shivering as he struggled to pull his shirt over his head. Padding barefoot across the chamber, he drew aside the linen hangings that cocooned Richard’s bed, allowing the low-burning flames in the hearth to chase away some of the dark. As he expected, Richard was trapped in another bad dream, tossing his head from side to side on the pillow, his mouth contorted, his breathing labored. But his sheets were soaked in sweat, and when Arne reached out timidly to shake Richard’s shoulder, he jerked back in dismay, for his king’s skin was searing to the touch.

R
ICHARD KNEW HE MUST BE
in Jaffa, for it was so ungodly hot. He tried to open his eyes, but the Outremer sun was too blindingly bright. He could hear people moving about, recognizing the voices of André and Master Ralph Besace, his personal physician. He was puzzled, though, to hear his mother’s voice, for Maman had not accompanied him to the Holy Land. Steeling himself against the glare, he squinted to see if she was truly there, and set off turmoil in the chamber.

“He’s awake!” This voice was familiar, too, that of another of his doctors, Master John of Brideport, which alarmed him, for he’d last seen Master John in Germany. Holy Christ, was he back at Trifels? He struggled to sit up and was at once urged to lie still. He did, realizing that wherever he was, it was not Germany. His mother was there, as was André, Will Marshal, his doctors, even his fourteen-year-old son, Philip, hovering behind the others. Before he could speak, a hand was laid upon his forehead. “God be praised, the fever has broken!”

By now Richard had recognized his surroundings, his bedchamber in the palace at Le Mans. As his wits cleared, it was coming back to him. He’d developed a sudden, intense headache, joking with André that God was punishing him for giving Johnny back his lands. He remembered feeling very hot that night, throwing off the covers to escape the suffocating heat. After that, nothing. “How long . . . ?”

“You fell sick on Monday eve, sire. Today is Maundy Thursday.”

He’d lost three days? “It was not the quartan fever?” he said, somewhat uncertainly, for he had no memory of the chills that always followed those bouts of fever. Both of his doctors assured him that he’d not been stricken with a recurrence of the ague that had plagued him for years. “What, then?”

“We do not know, my liege.” Master Ralph shook his head slowly. “It is passing strange that you’d become so very ill so suddenly. Were you feeling poorly ere that fever flared?” Richard mentioned the headache and sore throat, but his doctors still seemed baffled. Eleanor was beside him now, kissing his forehead to assure herself that his fever truly had broken. As he looked from face to face, he saw joy so intense that he realized they had not been sure he’d survive. He was both astonished and disquieted. He’d lost track of the times he’d confronted Death, but he’d never been ambushed like this before. In the past, Death had always given him fair warning. He was too tired, though, to give any more thought to his mysterious malady, not when sleep was beckoning so imperiously. He murmured a drowsy apology before surrendering to it, so abruptly that a frisson of fear swept the chamber. But after making sure that his breathing was regular and his pulse steady, both physicians declared that what he most needed now was rest. Master Ralph dared then to tell the queen mother that she ought to get some sleep, too, for God willing, it seemed likely the king would recover. Eleanor was too exhausted to argue with them. André and Will soon headed for their own beds. Philip balked and, wrapping himself in his mantle, he curled up in a nearby chair to keep vigil while his father slept.

W
HEN
R
ICHARD AWAKENED AGAIN,
he could tell it was daylight for the windows of the royal chambers in the Le Mans palace were luxuriously fitted with glass. After getting up to use the chamber pot, he did not protest when the doctors insisted he go back to bed, for his body was recovering more slowly than his brain, and his legs felt weak. He was sitting up, finishing a bowl of soup, when John was admitted. “Come in, Little Brother. Sorry to shatter your hopes, but it looks as if I am not going to die.”

John did not even blink. “And glad I am of it, Big Brother. Had you gone to God in Holy Week, most of your lords would likely have chosen little Arthur as their next king, for I’m still tainted goods in many eyes. So I’d be grateful if you could stop flirting with Death for a while, at least until I can restore my reputation.”

The doctors gaped at him, openmouthed. But his gamble paid off, for Richard was amused by his cockiness, not offended. Pulling up a chair, John did his best to be entertaining, knowing what a poor patient his brother was. At first, he appeared to be succeeding. Soon, though, Richard seemed to be withdrawing into himself, dwelling upon thoughts that were not pleasant—or so John judged from the somber look on the older man’s face.

By then, Eleanor, André, and Will had joined John at Richard’s bedside. He was quiet, but they thought that only natural, and were encouraged that he had been willing to eat. He had to endure brief visits from the Bishop of Le Mans, the Archbishop of Rouen, the Earl of Chester, the Viscount of Thouars, and several other highborn lords and clerics. He slept again after that and, upon awakening, he found that shadows were infiltrating the chamber. Propping himself up on his elbows, he regarded them searchingly, his gaze moving from his doctors to his mother, his brother, his cousins André and Morgan, then on to Will Marshal; his chaplain, Anselm; his vice-chancellor, Eustace; and the newly arrived Dean of St Martin’s le Grand, William de St Mère-Eglise.

“I would ask this of you all. Could this sickness be a sign from God? A warning that I need to atone for my sins and lead a more godly life?”

John saw at once where this was heading and did not like it in the least. If his brother decided to “lead a more godly life,” he’d reconcile with his wife, and the last thing John wanted was for Richard to spend enough time in Berengaria’s bed to sire a son. “You cannot mean that mad hermit, Richard. He was spouting nonsense!”

But the three churchmen were already assuring Richard that God may indeed have been warning him, and both doctors agreed that the strange nature of his illness could be explained if it had been divine chastisement. Will was the next to speak. It was not Richard’s sickbed he was seeing; it was his brother Hal’s deathbed.
God is punishing me for my sins, Will.
His eyes dark with fear, Hal had cried out despairingly that it was too late, that Lucifer was in the chamber with them, waiting to claim his soul. Nigh on twelve years later, that memory still brought tears to Will’s eyes, for he’d loved his young lord, even though Hal had lost his moral bearings and had been no better than a bandit in his last weeks of life. Will had helped Hal to make a good death, and now he told Hal’s brother what he’d once told Hal, saying with such passion that he choked up, “The Almighty has given you a great mercy, sire—time to repent and seek His forgiveness.”

Morgan added his voice to Will’s, remembering a warning more credible than the hermit’s, Bishop Hugh of Lincoln’s. André and Eleanor were not sure how to answer; André in particular was dubious, for he thought John was likely right and the hermit mad. But it was always better to err on the side of caution, and Eleanor thought it logical that the Almighty would care more for the soul of a king. Then, too, Richard could not beget a son and heir unless he mended his broken marriage.

When she did not argue against it, John knew that his voice would go unheeded. Richard would make another spectacular repentance as he had in Messina, wanting to be judged worthy to lead the fight against the infidels. And with his accursed luck, Brother Richard would get his little Spanish bride pregnant ere the month was out. Wishing he could hunt that wretched hermit down with lymer hounds and feed him his own entrails, John lapsed into a morose silence that no one noticed.

J
OANNA KNEW THAT SOMETHING
was wrong. While Richard was meeting with Constance in Angers, Morgan had paid a visit to Mariam at Beaufort-en-Vallée. It had been a very brief one, and in the two and a half weeks since then, Mariam had been quiet and withdrawn, rebuffing all of Joanna’s questions. But Joanna was nothing if not persistent, and when Mariam slipped out into the garden after hearing Easter Mass in the castle chapel, she followed.

She found Mariam sitting on a turf bench by the fishpond. “Yes, I know I am meddling,” she said before the other woman could speak. “But you are as dear to me as my own sisters, and I can see you are in pain. Let me help.”

“As if I could stop you.” Mariam’s compelling golden eyes were brimming with tears, though, and once Joanna sat beside her, she began to unburden herself. “Morgan came to tell me that Richard had given him and Guillain very generous grants, large estates in his ducal domains in Normandy and Aquitaine. He was so joyful, Joanna, saying that now we could marry. It well-nigh broke my heart to turn him down.”

“But why? I know you love him.”

“Yes, I do love him, and I would not burden him with a barren wife.”